


Bullseye

by ThoughtfulConstellations



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Natasha Romanov's Arrow Necklace, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtfulConstellations/pseuds/ThoughtfulConstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a necklace,” Natasha replies.  Clint sets his coffee down on the coffee table—not using a coaster, of course—and he scoots forward even farther.  Reaching out, he takes his hand and gently lifts up the silver arrow necklace from off her collarbone. He holds it on his fingers for a few seconds, and then his mouth splits into a huge smile.  He’s beaming so brightly the stars in the sky could resign tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullseye

**Author's Note:**

> I always love people's ideas on how Natasha got the arrow necklace, so I kind of came up with my own. If you read my Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff series Compromised, this piece fits into that universe, but it can also stand on its own.
> 
> This was inspired by paticmak's artwork on Tumblr. To see the original image, you can find it here: http://paticmak.tumblr.com/post/100362421756/ah-arrows
> 
> For extra emotions, listen to "Give Me Strength" - Snow Patrol.
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Enjoy! =)

When Natasha walks through the door of her apartment, she sees Clint sitting on the coffee table.  Clint, who’s supposed to be on a mission right now.  Clint, who isn’t supposed to be home for another two days.  Clint, who has bandages all over his face and arms. He’s wearing a purple t-shirt and sweatpants, and he looks like he hasn’t slept for 76 hours, but it’s him, alright.

“Hey, Tash,” he says.  He even _sounds_ exhausted. Natasha’s used to seeing him come back beat up and bruised and beaten to hell, but for whatever reason, tonight she’s extra eager to see him.  He’s only been gone a week, and he wasn’t able to have any contact with her, which, again, Natasha’s used to.  She slams the door shut behind her and rushes over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She’s standing between his legs, at least a full head taller than he is when he’s sitting down, and he’s wrapping his arms back around her.  He lets out a quiet hum as he rests his head against her chest.

Natasha can feel the exhaustion in his body, and she runs one hand down the back of his neck to rub his back.  As soon as her hand slides over his shoulder, he inhales sharply. “Shit. Injury.  Fell and busted up that part of me.”

“Oh, no.” Natasha winces against the top of Clint’s head and pulls her hand back up to rest on top of his shoulder instead of behind. “Poor baby.”

“You’re making fun of me,” he says, but the smile is evident in his voice.

“No, I’m not.  I’m serious. I feel bad that you got hurt.” She kisses his hair and inhales deeply as she tucks her nose into the dark blond mess. His hair is slightly wet, and it smells strong of his shampoo, so she knows that he’s been home for about an hour. “How long have you been here?  Why didn’t you say anything to me?  I would have picked you up from HQ.”

“Surprise,” Clint musters weakly.  Finally, Natasha relaxes her arms from around his neck and sits back onto the couch. “So why the warm welcome?”

“Can’t I be happy to see you?” she asks, smirking. “You look rough.”

“And here I was thinking I look like George Clooney,” Clint quips. Even though he’s clearly in pain and sleep-deprived, he’s got his sense of humor about him. Actually, it’s that same ever-present sense of humor that reminds Natasha to keep a light outlook on things when everything turns to shit.  Which is often.

“Don’t think too highly of yourself,” she replies, but she smiles as she says it. “How was the mission?  Was it good?”

“Mmmm no mission talk tonight.  I can barely stay awake,” he murmurs. “But I could definitely use a cup of coffee.”

Natasha gets up and goes to the kitchen to start brewing a fresh pot. She’s been trying to get Clint to agree to a Keurig, but every time she mentions it, he gets this look on her face that lets her know that suggestion is on par with killing his firstborn child. So she picks her battles, and she goes about making coffee the old school way.  At least he _did_ compromise and buy new mugs.  She doesn’t know why all their mugs disappear, but they’re constantly running out of them, which means that Clint will drink straight out of the pot.

Normally, she’d tell Clint to get his own damn cup of coffee, but he looks so worn out that she doesn’t mind getting it for him tonight. She glances over her shoulder as she gets the machine going. “How long have you been back in the States?”

“Four hours.  Spent way too long processing in and debriefing,” he says, his voice coming out as more of a groan than anything. “Junior agents can’t get anything done right.”

“So glad I went the expedited route,” Natasha murmurs loud enough so that Clint can hear her.

“Me too,” he agrees. “God, I’m glad I’m not an Academy snob.”

“Be nice,” Natasha lightly chides.  She smiles as she realizes that their roles are kind of reversed today—Clint’s always the one nudging her with his elbow and giving her a look to bite back her questionably rude comments while she’s the one encouraging him to say what he really thinks whenever he gets annoyed.  Yin and yang, other senior agents say jokingly about STRIKE Team: Delta.  Natasha doesn’t need anyone to tell her that Clint is the light side, and she is the dark; that’s the way they’ve always been, and she can’t imagine it being any other way. She hears him laugh, low and soft, but then his laugh cuts off, and it’s followed by a short, sharp inhale of pain. “How bad’d you get knocked up?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice your choice of words,” Clint counters. Natasha grins to herself and shoot shim a look out of the corner of her eye.

“How bad did you get hurt?” she rephrases.

“Five bruised ribs, a concussion, may have broken my nose again, and cracked some bones in my fingers,” he replies. “I’ve had worse.”

Natasha remembers all the previous injuries she’s seen decorating his body like tattoos of war. She remembers all the horror stories from his childhood.  Yes. She knows he’s had worse. The machine sputters to a stop, and she picks up the mug and crosses back into the living room, switching on a lamp nearby so she can really get a good look at him.  When she hands the mug to him, he takes it and holds it in his hands as if it’s his life force, as if it’s the only thing that can save him.

“Thanks,” he says appreciatively.

“So if I take your shirt off, how much of a battlefield is your body going to look?” Natasha asks.  Clint pauses and considers the question, tilting his head to the side as mentally assesses himself.

“Probably only 5% of me looks like a battlefield,” he answers with an affirmative but painful nod. “Not that bad.”

“Good,” Natasha replies. “I just got back from Kate’s.  She’s re-painting her bathroom, and I offered to help her.”

“My two ladies getting shit done,” Clint says.  He’s smiling, but it almost looks painful for him. He also looks like he’s about to fall asleep sitting on the edge of the coffee table.  Natasha leans down to scratch her ankle when she sees Clint’s gaze fix on something around her neck.  She acts like she doesn’t notice, and she tries to shift her shirt so that he can’t see, but he’s tilting his head and making that curious puppy face he always makes whenever he’s thinking. “What’s that?”

“Hmm?” she asks innocently.  Painfully, he lifts his hand and points to his own neck while nodding at hers.

“That,” he repeats.  Natasha puts her hand on it and half-shrugs.

“It’s a necklace,” she replies.  Clint sets his coffee down on the coffee table—not using a coaster, of course—and he scoots forward even farther.  Reaching out, he takes his hand and gently lifts up the silver arrow necklace from off her collarbone. He holds it on his fingers for a few seconds, and then his mouth splits into a huge smile.  He’s beaming so brightly the stars in the sky could resign tonight.

“This is an arrow,” he says. “Is this—is this—did you get this because of me?”

Natasha thinks about saying no just to mess with him, but he’s so beautiful with his weariness and his pain mixing together in his happiness that she just can’t. “Yeah, I did.”

“When’d you get it?” he asks, his smile not fading a single bit.

“Shortly after you left.  I don’t know.” She shrugs to make it look like she really doesn’t know, but she got it the day after he’d left.  It hadn’t been an on purpose kind of thing—she’d just been wandering around down at the local art festival downtown, and there’d been a vendor selling sterling silver necklaces for a decent price.  Right there on one of the hooks had been an arrow necklace. At first, Natasha had fully intended to walk away without purchasing it, but the more she’d looked at it, the more she’d thought it was perfect, so she’d bought it and put it on right then and there.  In front of God and everyone. If she were to believe in God.

“You don’t usually wear jewelry, Nat,” Clint points out. “Not unless you’re undercover.”

“Well…I figured I could make an exception,” Natasha responds with a small smile. He looks so damn happy because she’s wearing that she almost wishes she’d bought it years ago just to see him look like this.  Even though he’s in pain and hasn’t slept in God knows how long, he’s gorgeous to her.

“This is actually…really coincidental,” he says.  Natasha frowns slightly and tilts her head to the side as a question.  He moves to stand up, his motions all stiff and disjointed, as if he can’t walk right. Catching Natasha’s raised eyebrows, he half-grins, half-winces down to her. “I’ll be back.”

“Ok,” Natasha says, unsure.  She watches Clint walk—more like hobble—to the bedroom, and she waits for him. It’s not that she’s embarrassed that he saw the arrow necklace—she just hadn’t expected him to see it so quickly. She usually _doesn’t_ wear jewelry because it’s too personal, but she’s made an exception for this one because it makes her think of Clint. If she’s ever in any kind of danger where she couldn’t have an identifier on her, she can always just take it off. But until she has to, she’ll keep it on.

Eventually, Clint comes back into the living room, and he eases back down onto the edge of the coffee table.  He holds something out in his hand, and she takes it from him.  It’s his SHIELD arm guard, the one that he uses whenever he has a mission.  She’s about to ask him why he’s showing this to her, but then she sees it.  At the bottom right corner of his arm guard is a red hourglass. A Black Widow symbol. She glances up at him with curious green eyes.

“Black Widow,” she states.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I put that there.”

“How?” She holds it up closer to her face to see. “Are those stitches?”

“Courtesy of SHIELD.  I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can customize shit like that before SHIELD finds out.” Clint shrugs, clearly very proud of himself.  Natasha lowers the arm guard, and she finds that she’s smiling just as brightly as he is.

“When’d you get this done?” she asks.

“Last time I needed a new bracer.  So…a month.” Clint takes it back from her and smiles. “I kind of think we’re in love, Agent Romanoff.”

“We’re ridiculous.  You do realize that, right?” Natasha asks.  Clint gives a stiff nod, but he’s still fucking smiling at her through the pain.

“I do,” he agrees. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Are you on pain meds?” Natasha asks, reaching out and placing her palm on the least bruised side of his beautiful, weary face.  He closes his eyes and leans his cheek into her hand, now acting as if her touch is his life force and the only thing that can save him.

“Mmhmmm,” he answers.  He looks so young it breaks her heart. “How’d you know?”

“You called me Tash.  You only do that when you’re on pain meds or don’t feel well.  You’re also extra sappy when you’re drugged up.” Natasha brushes her thumb along his cheekbone. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.  You look like you could sleep for three days.”

He obliges and follows behind her to their bedroom, where he promptly strips until he’s in his boxers before falling into the bed.  Natasha turns into him to face him, and he catches the arrow necklace between his fingers after she’s made herself comfortable. “You love me.”

“Is that a surprise?” she asks.

“No,” he admits, his smile gentle and drug-induced. “But it’s always nice to know.”

“Well, don’t forget it.  Go to sleep now, Hawkeye.  Take out your hearing aids.” She lightly rubs a healing bruise on his bare arm.

He’s too tired to tell her that she’s being bossy, so he just takes his hearing aids out and sets them on his nightstand.  He takes her back in his arms and rests his chin on top of her head. “And just so you know, Tash, because it’s always nice to know…I love you, too.”

Natasha pulls back just enough so that he can see her hands. She signs one word, and it makes him smile.

  **Bullseye.**


End file.
